Here’s a Daily Dot interview with the man behind Pizza Rat, which is the underwhelming Internet Thing you’re supposed to know about this week. Next week we’ll have moved on, and anyone who brings up Pizza Rat will seem old and behind the times. At the end of the year Pizza Rat will be included in the round-up of Internet Things; there will be a call-back in a compilation video in a few years that makes you feel a bit older.

Some people are noting that it’s a real New York slice in the video. You can fold it! Yes, that’s the primary attribute I want in my food. Foldability.

How long before he gets a movie offer? I don’t know. Maybe he’ll be killed by Grumpy Cat and then there would be squee! far and wide. But if he survived the movie, there would be plans for Pizza Rat 2; if they’re making another Fantastic Four - hey, five time’s the charm - then there can be a sequel to a movie about a smart rodent just trying to make his way in the big city. Speaking of which: here’s a list of 152 movie sequels “in the works.” That doesn’t mean they’re in production, just that someone’s talking about them. Dread 2 is on the list, without any specifics. Hellboy 3 is on the list, if only to say “Ron Perlman is talking about it.” There are two Prometheuses. Promentheii?

Speaking of Pizza Rat, and what it says about New York today, here’s the NYT on nostalgia for the good old bad old days:

THERE IS A STRONG CURRENT of nostalgia for the late ’70s and early ’80s in New York, even among those who never lived through it — the era when the city was edgy and dangerous, when women carried Mace in their purses, when even men asked the taxi driver to wait until they’d crossed the 15 feet to the front door of their building, when a blackout plunged whole neighborhoods into frantic looting, when subway cars were covered with graffiti, when Balanchine was at the height of his powers and the New York State Theater was New York’s intellectual salon, when John Lennon was murdered by a Salinger-reading born-again, when Philip Roth was already famous, Don DeLillo had yet to become famous, and most literary insiders were betting on Harold Brodkey’s long-awaited novel, which his editor, Gordon Lish, declared would be ‘‘the one necessary American narrative work of this century.’’ (It flopped when it finally came out in 1991 as ‘‘The Runaway Soul.’’)

/p>This was the last period in American culture when the distinction between highbrow and lowbrow still pertained, when writers and painters and theater people still wanted to be (or were willing to be) ‘‘martyrs to art.’’

Which was quite likely, given the crime. I love the way the attributes of the exciting, intellectually zesty years included “John Lennon’s murder.” So why to people look back with awe and wonder? Because they weren’t there and feel as if they missed something that was Authentically Gritty. The article concludes:

BUT THOSE DAYS, those years, are gone. ‘‘Love Among the Ruins,’’ one might have called it, a time when young unknowns could achieve fame or at least rub shoulders with it, if they didn’t mind the rats galloping underfoot or a stickup in broad daylight on busy Christopher Street.

You might have had a gun jammed in your ribs, but those ribs were connected to shoulders that might have rubbed up against someone famous for being an emaciated clothes hanger in an “Interview” shoot. Sure, the subways stank of electrified urine. But it might have been Jimmy Breslin’s urine!